Date: Thu, 14 Apr 1994 17:15:54 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: bjroth@AOL.COM Subject: Surge of Power 1/2 SURGE OF POWER A Highlander Story by B. Janis Roth ----------------------------------------- part 1 of 2 ----------------------------------------- In Memory of Aaron: Because, for us, Always cannot be Forever. The healing journey has begun. With Many and Grateful Thanks to Immortal01, for Technical Assistance, Sword Lore, and Support. And to Justin Bryant, who is solely responsible for the Tae Kwon Do terms. ----------------------------------------- "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." He spoke the ritual words into the stillness of his bathroom mirror, noting how red and swollen his eyes looked against the unusual pallor of his skin. This Quickening had been hard on him. The short hairs along his arms and the back of his neck were still distended from the electrical chargoes. None of his joints seemed properly aligned. "Clan MacLeod indeed," he continued addressing his reflection, "There is no more Clan MacLeod, and hasn't been since '46." 1746. Culloden. The last Jacobite Uprising. He'd been there, though not as Clansman. MacLeod plaid had been stripped from his back 150 years before Culloden. 400 years ago at the time of his first death. . . and rebirth. It was an unending circle unless someone took his head as he had just taken another's. His hands were shaking again. He twisted the chrome knob on the sink and plunged his hands into the icy stream. Curling his fingers, he splashed the water over his face and head . He looked back at the mirror. "I am Duncan MacLeod." He knew it to be true. He had accepted the Quickening without losing any of his self. Why the hell wasn't it ending? Why wasn't his body healing? Without thought, his right hand moved and traced the pattern of the wound down his ribs and across his abdomen. The area was tender, but new skin had already sealed it. By morning, there w ouldn't even be a scar. Or, at least, there shouldn't be. He stopped the running water and turned from the mirror. A single yank, and the leather thong holding back his hair snapped. The long black strands floated around his face, sizzling when they connected with damp spots. Something was wrong. He stood in the doorway of the bathroom and looked out at the loft. The smallish room was crammed with all of his tangible memories of Tessa, but now it seemed empty. He wanted to talk to someone, Duncan realized with some surprise, but who? Tessa and Darius were both dead. Connor was in Italy. . . or was it New York? He couldn't remember. Richie hadn't left town yet, but it was time for the young Immortal to find his own path. Besides, Richie would be no more help in this than Charlie. He rubbed his hands across his face. The shape was the same, but the planes felt unfamiliar. He was alone in this. Aloneness. The curse of his kind. He pulled the shirt off his body, wincing with pain and protest as his shoulders rolled in their sockets. It had been centuries since he 'd felt this kind of ache. While he could always feel the sharp impact of each blow in combat, his flesh normally repaired the damage even as it was being inflicted. He stepped out of his shoes, unsnapped his jeans, and pushed them down over his hips. His left knee popped. Something was wrong, he thought again. * The ringing wouldn't stop. He rolled over onto his stomach, grabbing the pillow so that it covered his head. The next claxon was muffled, but still insistent. A little more alert now, he began counting the bells. One, two, three, he groaned, four, sat up, five, and reached for the phone. "Hello?" "There's lightening down on pier 6." He was fully awake now. "Whose?" "Don't know." The answer surprised him, and he heard his own echo, "Don't know?" "No, sir. It's a bit unusual." "Martin, you're a Third Step Apprentice. This is your Second Solo." Joe paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. Martin was in the last stage of his Training. If he said that he didn't know, well. . . . "Tell me the whole story. Be specific." "Combat began at 22:53 inside warehouse 11-A on pier 6. The Quickening started at 23:01, and MacLeod left the. . . ." "I thought you said you didn't know the victor," Joe interrupted. "No, sir. That's not what I said." Martin's voice was still calm. His Watcher connections went back over 20 generations; he knew what he was doing. "MacLeod left the warehouse at 23:09." Joe squinted and tried to read the numbers on the clock without turning on the light. "But it's after midnight now. You say the energy charges are still occurring?" "Yes, sir. They never stopped. I tried to get inside for a closer look, but the police were pretty quick tonight. And now they've got half the dock cordoned off. Do you suppose," his voice dropped to a whisper, "That MacLeod left in the middle of it?" "I don't think it works that way, Martin." Joe switched on a light, blinking in irritation. Tucking the phone under his chin, he r eached up and grasped the pull-bar to begin the laborious process of getting out of bed. "I'm going to check on MacLeod. Call Ryndler for me and tell him he needs a new assignment. Then stay by the warehouse and see what you can find out. I'll have my pager." "Yes, sir." "Oh, and Martin?" "Yes, sir?" The boy expected a compliment. Joe could hear the excitement in Martin's usually flat voice. "Don't wait an hour before calling me next time." ** Joe released the doorbell, slipped his hand into his pocket, and removed a set of keys: front door, back door, office, elevator. He jiggled them in his hand, testing their weight. Duncan had no idea. All Watchers had duplicates of their assignment's keys; Joe had carried over a dozen sets in the almost thirty years since he had completed his apprenticeship. He had been car rying Duncan's keys for half of those years. He'd never needed them before. He pressed the buzzer again and held it, willing Duncan to fling open the door shouting an obscenity. The door stayed shut. With a sigh, Joe found the correct key and slid it into the lock. It was not a perfect copy, and, at first, it refused to move. Joe braced his left hand against the doorframe, adjusted his stance, then used his cane to knock the metal tab horizontal. It moved with the third blow. He took another minute to rebalance himself, then turned the key manually and opened the door. The dojo was dark and the light switches were located on the far side of the room. Joe rested his free hand on the wall, and tapped his way to the back corner, where he used a second key to call the freight elevator. Duncan was home, at least. The elevator wouldn't be at the loft otherwise. He stepped carefully onto the creaky wooden floor, using his cane to test for rotted spots. Closing the heavy gate caused him some trouble; it was not designed for a person who stood with the aid of double prosthetics. Unlike the dojo, almost every light in the loft was on. Joe's discomfort increased. When alone, Duncan preferred using the candlelight he had known for most of his life. The furniture scattered around the room was a hasty mixture of whatever had been available. Joe had no trouble seeing Duncan's huddled form in the center of the bed. His skin was slick with sweat and the blankets were pooled on the floor, where they had been kicked into a pile. "MacLeod?" Joe approached the bed, his left hand outstretched. "Duncan? Can you hear me?" Duncan's eyelids fluttered, but did not open. He mumbled something, and twisted restlessly onto his back. The injury he had received earlier was now a vivid purple line bisecting his torso. Joe pressed the rubber tip of his cane against the hardwood floor and leaned over to rest his hand on Duncan's forehead. A mild electric shock, such as a person receives when touching metal after shuffling across a piece of carpet traveled up his arm before he could even make contact with the Immortal. It wasn't painful. . . yet. Joe withdrew his hand. He stared at the younger-looking man for a few minutes, then moved to the phone and, carefully remembering to redirect the charges, dialed the number in Rome that he had first memorized when he was thirteen. "Buon giorno, Importares di Mondo. Potere io aiutaro?" "Dawson 68149-Tango. I've got a red flag; I need to talk to de Chavigny." "Si, one moment." Joe could hear the static and gurgle of the overseas line, but his attention was on Duncan, who was muttering to himself in Old Gaelic. When it came, Daphne de Chavigny's voice made him start. "Joseph? For why do you use the code and the flag? This MacLeod of yours, he has discovered more Hunters?" Despite his concerns, Joe smiled. Daphne had been his First Trainer, and her broken English had shaped his adolescent years. "Not Hunters. MacLeod seems to be sick." "Sick? But this is impossible. Quick, tell me all the story. Be specific." Joe could hear the plastic tapping of her nails against computer keys as he told her of Duncan's condition and repeated Martin's phone call. He glanced at his watch. "It's been forty-five minutes, and Martin hasn't beeped me, so I have to believe that the Quickening is still going on." "Not the Quickening." Duncan had opened his eyes. "I took it. I am still MacLeod." "Okay, Mac, okay." Joe smiled at his charge, hoping that it was reassuring and confident. "I didn't hear you Daphne. What did you say?" "I said merde. As well as other words which my age allows me to say freely. Joseph, our archives go back over half a millennia. No Immortal is sick. There is nothing." "Great. I'll tell him it's nothing. Call me here if you do find something." "Joseph, Joseph. You cannot stay with him now. How many are the times that I will have to go to the Council and make the excuses for your behavior? Your career. . . ." "I'm staying, Daphne. Tell the Council what you like." He hung up on her protests. "Well, I guess you don't know everything about us." By sheer force of will, Duncan had pushed himself into a sitting position, but the exercise had left him panting. His head lay limply against the wall. "If I felt better, the," he paused to catch his breath, "information might relieve me." "Don't you have any idea what's happening to you?" Duncan moved his head from side to side. "There is no part of me that understands this." A spasm contracted his muscles, and, with an involuntary curse, he curled his body around his knees. Goose bumps rose on his flesh and his teeth clicked together. "You look cold." Joe took a step forward. "Let me get the blankets." "No. I'm not cold." Duncan's words echoed hollowly into the curve of his body. Joe didn't believe him, but he wasn't about to argue the point. Even with Duncan covered in sweat and unable to control his muscles, Joe was well aware who would be the loser in a wrestling match. He took refuge in the time honored platitudes of nursing. "Are you hungry? Do you want me to make you some soup?" "No." "Is there anyone you want me to call? I think I can find out who's assigned to Connor." "No." "Do you want. . . ." "No. I dinna want a'thing." Joe shifted his weight. "Let me help, Duncan. Please." Duncan lifted his head to rest his chin on his knees. "Who is Martin? Just how many of you Watch me?" Joe closed his eyes and counted to ten. "How much did you overhear?" "I want an answer, Dawson." Speaking hurt. Staying conscious was torture. The Immortal had to reach deep within himself to find enough energy to maintain a level stare. If the other man refused to answer. . . . Joe looked around the loft as if he'd never been there before. Slowly, he began to move toward the couch, turning his back to Duncan's direct gaze, and giving himself time to think. How was he to answer that question? Watchers were family. Literally. There were vows that he couldn't. . . wouldn't break. As he settled onto the couch, he also settled on an answer that was the truth. Mostly. "We train each other just as you do. Martin is my apprentice, which means he does a lot of my research. Your challenge tonight seemed routine enough; I decided to let him solo it." Joe paused for emphasis. "I'm the only Watcher assigned to you." Duncan closed his eyes. He wasn't sure that he believed the other man, but he was in too much pain to care. He let go of the rigid control he had been maintaining and allowed himself to slide recumbent. *** "What time did they shut it off?. . . . No effect at all?. . . . I see. Welvl, the Council agrees with you. Didn't the police find anything?. . . . All right, then, we'll proceed as planned. . . . . It was bad earlier, but he seems stable enough now," Joe glanced over his shoulder, "In fact, he's awake. Go back to the dorm; get some sleep. You did good work." He replaced the phone on its stand and turned around. "I didn't mean to wake you. How are you feeling?" "I'll live." Duncan intended the words to be humorous, but they came out bitterly. It was true, he realized: an eternity of pain. Unless, "Did he find out anything? Your apprentice. . . what was his name. . . Mark?" Joe didn't supply the correct name. "I think so." He walked over and sat on the chair he had placed next to the bed. "Warehouse 11-A has a private generator which hasn't worked in years. Now, suddenly the thing is all powered up and throwing sparks. What's more, the city's electrical crews can't seem to shut it off." Duncan shook his head. "How is that possible? A Quickening always reflects back energy. Things shatter. Light bulbs blow. Even fluorescent and neon tubes melt." "But how often do you fight in a building with its own generator?" "I don't know." Duncan scowled at the other man. This was stupid. "Sometimes. I imagine that we must. So what?" Joe relaxed a little. Duncan obviously hadn't heard more than the tail end of his phone conversation with Martin, and nothing at all of his second call to Rome. "What if some of the energy from the Quickening got caught in the generator?" "Caught?" "Okay, so I'm not an electrician," Joe stood up and paced around the bed. "You know what I mean. Do you have any idea of the force that's unleashed during a Quickening? You're always in the middle of it, but I can remember Watching a few that I didn't think I'd survive. Are you aware that the energy is quite visible? It's," Joe hesitated. Duncan was staring at a spot on the ceiling; his gaze distant and unfocused. "Mac? Are you listening to me?" Duncan was still for several seconds, then he blinked twice. "We don't need your organization Watching us, Dawson; we're far from being children. I've seen other Immortals receive a Quickening; I know what it looks like." He blinked again and shook his head to clear the memories. "Whatever the appearance, the force isn't random. Pieces don't just get caught in a generator." "How do you know?" "Because I know." "Yes, well, we all know that Immortals don't get sick, either. But just look at yourself, Mac. Do you want me to bring you a mirror?" Duncan struggled to sit up and failed. He was angry. At least, he wanted to be angry. He didn't have the strength. "This summer, when I took Galen in the amusement park," he was breathing hard, "Nothing blew out then. Everything just started up, spun around, and then turned off. I walked away from that one, Joe. I walked out." After passing out for an hour and ten minutes. Joe kept his thought private. He wasn't sure that MacLeod knew he had been there "Actually, that fits in perfectly with our theory. There was a conduit for all of the surplus energy that time. Tonight you were fighting in an abandoned warehouse. I told you, this generator isn't even hooked up." Duncan could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. Was it possible for him to have a heart attack? If so, and he died, would he reanimate in this kind of pain? "Say you're right," he spoke distinctly, pausing for breath after each word. "What do you suggest we do about it?" "We take you back to the source and let it finish." "What?" "You heard me, MacLeod. You've got raw energy running haywire through your body," Joe held out his hand to show several blistered burns, "Why you aren't fried to a crisp is beyond my comprehension." "I did that to you?" "It wasn't intentional, Duncan. You were thrashing around in delirium, and I had some idea that I could hold you down. They'll be okay." "I'm sorry, Joe." "Let's get you better. I'll take your apology then." Duncan sighed. "All right. I think it's crazy, but I'll try it." Joe smiled. Duncan's agreement made things easier, but the decision was inevitable. Neither one of them, he was well aware, had mentioned doctors at any time. "I'm not going to be able to get you back to the warehouse myself. What's Richie's number? We can. . . ." "No." Joe dropped the phone to cover the fact that he had already started dialing. "What?" "Not Richie. I don't want him involved with this." Duncan stared at the Watcher. "I would have called him myself if I had wanted him here." Duncan didn't remark on the fact that he hadn't called Joe either, but the message got across. "Call Mark." "Wh-y?" Joe had almost forgotten about 'Mark.' Duncan didn't notice the slip. "He's been out all night. I just sent him to bed." "Then get him out again. He was Watching me earlier. He can finish this with us now." "What happened between you and Richie? He'd want to be here." "Nothing happened between us. Let your squire earn his spurs. Mine is to stay away." Joe had one last card to play. "Mark probably hasn't gotten home yet." "Then we'll wait. I'm in no rush. What's the matter, Dawson? Will it ruin his career if I see him?" The Watcher rubbed the short, gray hairs of his beard, as he weighed the pros and cons of saying yes. The list of positives was short. No doubt about it; he'd be called to Council for tonight's work. "No. Not his career." Joe paused, hoping that Duncan would take the hint, but the other man remained silent. Joe picked up the phone and dialed. "My phone bill is all paid up, you know." "Huh?" Duncan gestured at the phone. "You charged it to your card." "Access code," Joe said the first thing that popped into his mind. "It's a voice mail system." He randomly punched another series of numbers, then put the phone to his ear in time to hear the switchboard operator cursing. "This is Dawson. Is Andrews back yet?" "He signed in five minutes ago. What kind of games are you playing, Dawson." Joe sighed. They just didn't have cryptics for this situation. "Patch me through." He saw, but didn't acknowledge Duncan's questioning gaze. "It's urgent." "Jesus, Dawson, second solo is supposed to be an easy assignment. You've already had the kid out all night." "Just patch me through. I've got the clearance." "You'd better have clearance, Dawson. I'm logging all this." There was a reason, Joe reflected as he was put on hold, that some Watchers never made it in the field. "Mark, it's Joe. MacLeod wants you to help. How fast can you be here?" "Fifteen minutes, sir. Twenty, if you wouldn't mind me showering first." "Go ahead and shower, Mark. It'll give me time to arrange some things here. Bring a couple pair of leather gloves with you." "Yes, sir." "Do you have everything?" "Yes, sir. Two pair of leather gloves and my name is Mark. I'll be there in twenty minutes, sir." He hung up without waiting for a response. "So now what?" Joe glanced over at Duncan. "Now I need to clear off the dock. Mind if I sit in the kitchen?" "What's wrong with this chair?" "Mac. . . ." Joe started to point out that he didn't ask about Immortal secrets, but thought better of it. What secrets could Duncan have from him? "We don't know what's going to happen when we get you to the warehouse. It could be rough. Why don't you sleep some more." He started for the kitchen, but Duncan's reply stopped him. "The last Watcher I encountered with police connections would have taken my head." "If I wanted your head, I could have taken it several times over while you were unconscious." Joe stood with his back to Duncan. "I'm not a Hunter, Mac. I'm trying to help you." There was no response to this comment, and, as the silence began to get uncomfortable, Joe turned around. Duncan's eyes were once again closed, and his chest rose and fell in a regular pattern. ----------------------------------------- Comments/Criticisms/Questions welcome at BJRoth@AOL.COM ----------------------------------------- =========================================================================